


i'll take the night shift

by FiresaFineThing



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Unhealthy Relationships, and to write them as otherwise is disingenuous, but also the fluffiest shit i can make myself write for these toxic boys, but so is L, light is an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28225137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiresaFineThing/pseuds/FiresaFineThing
Summary: Buttery light seeps from the windows, thick enough to cut with his serving knife and place on Ryuzaki’s chipped plate, the one that Light saves for him. Otherwise he would have trashed it weeks ago.“Bon-appetit, asshole.” Light hasn’t slept in several days. It’s beginning to wear on his customer service attitude.“Always delighted by the service.” Ryuzaki pops his finger from his mouth. “Light-kun.”
Relationships: L/Yagami Light
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	1. conversation with the little white lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Light rethinks his life decisions.

The funny thing about insomnia is the length. Every hour overspills into the other till it’s the longest night you’ve ever experienced, the fifth time this week, gone before you can grasp even a sniff of sleep. Long and short and distant. Light would laugh but he realizes it’s the sleep deprivation killing brain cells, making him think in circles. And he was top of his class. 

Big fucking deal. He smooths back his hair and dons the apron three hours before the 7 AM opening. 

“Morning Mr. Yagami.” Matsuda pipes in from the kitchen. 

“Afternoon Mr. Yagami.” Mikami greets during shift change.

“Good night, Mr. Yagami.” Takada leaves him at 9 PM to close up.

He gives them the same wave and smile, sinking into the empty charm he’s perfected over the years. It’s pathetic. Light sweeps the linoleum floors and hits the malfunctioning ceiling light till it stays on. He brews the daily batch of fruit teas and sets aside the cream and sugar. Scrubs the stray marks on the window and greets the college students walking by with the urgency of a homeless man frantically shaking his can at the street goers. 

He’s pathetic. It’s been a hard pill to swallow but he’s taken it like a good boy. Light resists the urge to snap at Matsuda after he spills a pot of perfectly good Earl Gray. He’s surrounded by idiots, but it’s his own fault he rubs elbows with them everyday. It was his own choice. He doesn’t look back; he doesn’t _regret_ things. It’s not how he operates.

Anything is better than California. Anything is better. That sounds so stupid, now that he’s thinking clearly. 

The opening coffee shop across the street is an affront to his personal sense of sanity and dignity. Light glares at it from the table he’s cleaning. Even the name. Coffee Shop. How utterly tongue-in-cheek. He hates it and he hates the crowd going in and not even bothering to glance over. He hates the fact he didn’t realize how cutthroat the economics of a sleepy Northeastern college town in the middle of nowhere would be and how inept he actually is at running a shitty tea shop in said middle of nowhere. 

Out of all the blocks in this tiny area, the owner had to set up right outside his store. This meant war. 

Light closes up Yagami’s and narrows his eyes at the lights still buzzing at Coffee Shop’s. He’ll scope out the competition. _Besides_ , he lets his shoulders sag. He has a long night ahead.

It’s still busy, students with laptops and textbooks splayed onto tables, some taking up several chairs like beds. There’s money oozing from the wallpaper, good lighting, actual hardwood flooring, and neon signs of confectionaries. He passes a few comatose students on their backpacks. Would never happen in his establishment. If any of them actually came to his establishment. 

The sign on the wall makes him pause. 

“Are you actually open 24 hours?” He asks the boy at the register. 

The boy seems no older than 16, pale as a ghost and bland as a piece of styrofoam. The garish strawberry-shaped hat sitting on his head makes him look even younger. He blinks and twirls a stray hair poking out of his cap.

“Yes. It’s on the sign.” He points at the sign and speaks as if Light was stupid on top of being blind. 

Shit. College students swarmed to caffeine and all-nighters like ants to Matsuda’s bubble tea spills.

A crash from the door behind the register breaks Light’s frantic brain jumps over his upcoming bankruptcy and the boy’s judgemental stare. An equally poorly strawberry-topped teenager bursts through, his leather pants squeaking in protest at his wide steps.

“Near, I can handle it! I’m awake!” The boy yells. A student surges up from her coma at the noise and a laptop clatters onto the floor.

Near ( _Nate_ , Light catches from the nametag clipped to his apron) frowns. “Mello, you can get some rest. It’s my shift any—”

“Get out!” ‘Mello’ barks and Nate’s face flickers in distress before he heads to the back, a quiet _fine_ as the door swings closed behind him.

He warily watches as ‘Mello’ shifts uncomfortably for a moment, looking back at the door, and then focuses on Light with a grimace. 

“What do you want?” He spits the words out and looks like he’d like to gut Light right here, right now.

Light glances at the nametag. Mihael. He wants styrofoam boy back.

“I’d like a black coffee.” Easy enough order, cheap, should be over and done with so Light can crawl back to his hole of an apartment and plot. 

“Are you blind?” Mihael points to the glaringly bright list above his head.

Light skims it in increasing horror. 

“How can you not sell coffee?” He internally screams, the shell of a polite smile just barely hanging on for dear life. “It’s called Coffee Shop.”

“Have you heard of a thing called irony?” Mihael sneers.

He has never been so tempted to hit a child.

“What would you recommend then?” Blank face, Yagami. Remain in control.

Mihael glances up, considering. “The alphabet special is okay.” 

“I’ll take it.” This has not been a good idea. 

The transaction makes him wince (six dollars for a single drink is excessive) but he congratulates himself on maintaining the facade of dignity exiting the store, brightly colored cream monstrosity in hand. The clatter of his keys on the wobbling kitchenette table brings him back to reality, a cold apartment, a frozen dripping drink clutched in his fist. He needs options. He needs a plan.

Back in high school, it seemed like the world was at his fingertips. All he had to do was pry it open. 

Light sits down. His fingers are sticky. No. He examines the elaborate L printed on the cup, vaguely gothic. This isn’t the end. 

He takes a sip and nearly vomits. God, that’s horrid. And surprisingly chocolatey. 

“Why the L?” He asks the next time.

“Do you have anything better to do than come here?” Mihael asks. 

It’s 3 AM. Light stares at him in response. He’s running on store-brand black tea and existential anger at the universe. There’s no one else in the store and he has no reason to act nice to brats.

Mihael glares back. 

“Don’t you have school in the morning?” Light parries, a sickly sweet smile on his face that he personally despised receiving from adults who thought he was an idiot. He practiced it for occasions like this.

“Yep.” The boy pops the ‘p’ and opens the register. “Now pay for something or get out.”

The second drink, a foamy white marshmallow-type “coffee” affair, is more palatable. Still sweet as hell but less of a nauseating mixture when warm. 

His ignored question lingers during work, stimulating as something to think about other than the general dread hanging over him. A quick search lets him know this is their first location, a website detailing the menu in detail but no entrepreneur-type story, no pictures, no name. Fine enough. He’d assumed this was some vanity project by some rich alumni with cash to burn. But vanity projects tended to have the name plastered over everything.

He re-examines the L. Probably an initial. He needs to restock the Yagami takeout cups. Check, double check, ignore the dead feeling sinking into his brain and the new ache in his spine. 

The duct-taped bell on the door corner chimes in the late afternoon. He looks up from his sweeping with a practiced smile that comes drastically close to disintegrating off his face. 

His customer service skills are impeccable. He’s just not fond of hobos coming in during rush hour.

“Hello,” he says, “you have to buy something to use the bathroom.”

The hobo blinks. His eyes bulge out of his skull in a mocking manner, or what Light would consider mocking if it wasn’t just how his face was. Sad. Light pauses sweeping.

The hobo smiles. Light vaguely considers nudging him with his broom before he finally speaks.

“I’d like one of everything.” He clambers over to the window table. Crouching on the chair. Light looks through the glass and grieves for the students trying to ignore the two of them, walking past the entrance. Past it.

He isn’t even wearing shoes. A finger to his mouth, he considers Light, whose face has frozen into the emergency mode he keeps for quick meltdowns in the privacy of his mind.

“Oh, do you take credit?” He tilts his head. 

Mikami has to dodge Matsuda’s panic tears on his way out, babbling about milk shortages. The hobo finishes up the last drink after dumping all of the complementary sugar packets Light has into the cup. He swallows all of it in a single gulp. 

Light has lost all feeling in his body. He swipes the card with a vigor he keeps for signing holiday cards to his family, each letter emphasizing how stable he is. Really. No one on the verge of bankruptcy can curve their letters so carelessly. 

Rue Ryuzaki trains his eyes on him, still abnormally large. Light could pluck and serve them in a well-sized tea cup. “Call me Ryuzaki.” 

Light rips the receipt and hands him the slip, only briefly meeting his stare with a blank look. “Have a nice day.”

He discretely wipes his hands on his apron while Ryuzaki shoves the receipt in his pocket. And then doesn’t head for the exit. He smiles all the way to the bathroom, Light acutely aware of Mikami cleaning the same spot in the back for the past five minutes. 

He can feel his teeth cracking. 

“Why don’t you have any pastries?” Ryuzaki licks the rim of his glass.

Takada pretends not to watch them as Light pretends he hasn’t been hovering over Ryuzaki for the past thirty minutes. He’s their only regular anyway. The reason why they haven’t been getting new customers also. 

Light removed the window table only for Ryuzaki to drag one of their tables to the window, and, well. The customer is always right and their tables are light. His table wobbles when Light firmly places the fourth whipped cream boba nightmare down. A small amount sloshes over and he wipes it away mechanically, eyes matching the stare. 

“Sorry, this is a tea shop.” He doesn’t know what to make of him. “Not a bakery.”

“Hmm, that’s a shame.” Ryuzaki dips a spoon in the glass, swirling tapioca and cream. “You might have more customers if you sold them.”

This is not the reason why Light calls up his sister for recipes. 

He can’t help but crack a smirk when Ryuzaki morosely glances at the new selection of savory pastries. It’s worth the extra preparation and Matsuda yawning every few minutes. Light doesn’t need the time anyway; it’s all white fog and bleary blue as he lies in bed eyes closed, head still unspooling. 

The usual. Old stories that once made him slip off, now inescapable holes of logic, like punching through drums and finding himself, still awake. Silence encompassing, no rhythm to drift away to. Flour and butter and salt coat his hands but he’s perfect on the landing, no bumps, bruises, or burns. No, he’s completely aware. 

Awake. Ryuzaki asks for strawberries and Light kindly tells him to fuck off. In his mind. 

The strawberry shortcake tastes sour. He spits out the remains in his sink and saves the rest in the fridge. The next tries are burnt, charred sugar substances of red slouching into dark brown concoctions. His pillow is a flabby, sad thing that he throws to the floor by 4 AM.

If he dreams in the short bursts of energy he has when crawling into bed, it’s of waking up. 

Buttery light seeps from the windows, thick enough to cut with his serving knife and place on Ryuzaki’s chipped plate, the one that Light saves for him. Otherwise he would have trashed it weeks ago. 

“Bon-appetit, asshole.” Light hasn’t slept in several days. It’s beginning to wear on his customer service attitude.

“Always delighted by the service.” Ryuzaki pops his finger from his mouth. “Light-kun.”

“Shut up.” Light sweeps back behind the counter, ignoring Mikami’s incredulous stare. This isn’t retreat.

But this is. His careful proprietary charm sliding back into position at the first notes of that bell lopsidedly nailed to the door, as if he hasn’t seen Ryuzaki every day for the last three months and served him his disgusting drink with equally disgusting amounts of whipped cream.

He knows the cake is trash but he watches Ryuzaki eat it all. 

It’s contemplative. Or it makes Light contemplate, is what he means in the aftermath of being continually beaten by the universe. Ryuzaki keeps attempting to converse with him in _Japanese_ , of all things, and it’s tempting to whack him over the head with his broom. 

Of course he knows how to speak it. 

“You do?” Ryuzaki tilts his head and he’s almost begging to be underestimated, to get punched between those large eyes.

Light’s elbow causes the table to wobble. “I’m fluent.” Ryuzaki cradles his drink in his hands.

He really shouldn’t be sitting down. The broom rests against the wall and Takada half-heartedly waves goodbye as he shakes himself out of the strange energy that comes after an afternoon of barbs that barely sting. Business is well but the income is mostly coming from one source.

He’s accidentally become a sugar baby, is the thought that hits him at 1 AM. The amount of stress baking that ensues is enough to fill the new glass display for a week. 

“What do you do?” Light locks up the shop while Ryuzaki stands near the doorway, just out of eyeline. They’ve touched upon terrible high school literature, worse anime, lives of the students shuffling past the windows, and late night television that’s lucid and disgusting. And the news, and the weather. 

Ryuzaki has a keen eye but he doesn’t offer much until you ask. There’s nothing else to do here. A young couple clutches onto each other outside of the local movie theater, puffs of laughter dissipating. Light’s questions are meant to be ambulatory. It’s that Ryuzaki manages to say the point anyway. 

“I used to be a detective.” He had the support, money, and time to sink into it. 

Light’s jealous. They pass a poster for a Noir classic in the rain. Pavement stones glisten like jewels. “Why did you stop?”

“I got bored.” His mess of a hairstyle gets fluffier in the post-rain mist. Light restrains himself from checking his own hair. 

Jellies are the next thing he attempts after chucking the last bit of charred cake into the trash. They turn out well but it’s hardly something to be proud of, combining powder and hot juice. Ryuzaki pops another one in his mouth. Maybe it was a matter of time that after he chewed up all of his work schedule, he’d attack on the personal front. 

Light’s hands are still when Ryuzaki drops his spoon. Maybe it’s enough of an indication of where they stand in this line between professionalism and Light’s own pathetic urge to think about something else other than tomorrow. Opening, baking, sweeping, smiling, closing, sleeping in name only. 

Maybe it’s proof that he peaked in high school. Sayu still tries to invite him over for the holidays but he saves them the trouble of showing up.

Anyway, a few seconds too late is what it takes for Ryuzaki to meet his gaze and for both of them to rethink where they are. Light has been unnaturally still for the past hour. There’s a sharpness around Ryuzaki that warns Light of danger, that his small bubble of stability can’t maintain itself with late night dessert calls and long fingers plucking through the various knickknacks Misa insists on giving him, stashed away in a kitchen cabinet. Ryuzaki crouches on the dining chair while Light leans against the counter.

He’s not against it. A little excitement is fine but he’s never met anyone he couldn’t wield like a tool. Ryuzaki is a customer. The spoon lies on the floor, a little jelly piece shimmering under the dim lightning. The only thing that’s ever brought him to his knees is himself. 

So this is a detour in a commonly tread path, a roundabout to catch the scenery, and nothing else. 

Light tells him to clean after himself and the breath held between the two of them releases. What happens next is inevitable given the boundaries crossed within the past month. Glint of curiosity in his eyes. Vaguely, in the haze of limbs and shivers, Light registers it as simultaneously familiar, chilling, and the best thing he’s seen in years. He wants to grasp onto it till it cuts.

The morning after, Ryuzaki claims Light’s ratty recliner stolen off of a frat house lawn, Light’s old coffee machine sputtering to life after months of unuse. He’s stolen one of Light’s turtlenecks, his hair even more ruffled after pushing it through the neck hole. Light’s heart spasms and he takes the offered mug without thinking. 

There’s only a touch of sweetness in it. He half-expected Ryuzaki to dump his whole sugar jar into the cup. Still, he usually takes it black, the lingering sugar just enough to throw him off balance and stare at the crown of ruffled black hair settled just beside his chest against the recliner’s head, tips brushing against his shirt. Ryuzaki blinks up at him. 

“Did you sleep well, Light-kun?” He averts his eyes back to his own cup, a warm coffee-sugar slush. 

That’s a sly remark if he’d ever heard one. They walk together to the shop and Light brings out the usual. Matsuda stammers about having to check the back when Light sits at the other end of Ryuzaki’s table. He still makes him pay and Ryuzaki still refuses to tip and everything falls into a clear routine in his head. Light’s almost disappointed.

“Light!” Misa almost breaks down the door and the sound barrier on her way in, new sunrise on an autumn day, heart emojis practically erupting from her head. 

But not that disappointed. The universe takes him too seriously sometimes. He gives a pained smile. “Misa.”

“How have you been?” She tackles him in a hug, giving a few good snuggles before breaking away. “Been getting those customers?” 

“Of course.” The shop is completely empty other than Matsuda’s humming from behind the counter. 

“Great!” She smiles and claps her hands together. “I’m _so_ glad things are good! Hmm?” Her head tilts as she takes a closer look at him. “Are you getting enough rest? You look—”

The bell rings. Light stills. 

“Hello.” Ryuzaki’s voice is as flat as usual. 

“Oh, a customer!” Misa squeals. 

Light stays silent as Ryuzaki tilts his head, looking over Misa with a growing half-smile. This is going to go poorly.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, Light? It’s not often I get to see idols with my tea,” Ryuzaki says.

Misa gasps. “You follow my channel?”

Light short-circuits, realizing: _Of course_. He would like the weeb trash she makes. He prays Misa will make this short. 

“Follow your channel? I _love_ your channel.” Ryuzaki’s tone remains completely dry. He flashes a peace sign and sticks his tongue out. Light blinks and mentally leaves the situation. He’s dreaming.

Misa implodes. And then properly explodes, because he can never get a single moment of peace if she gets the slightest encouragement—

“Oh my gosh, oh my _gosh_!” Her voice reaches new, piercing, highs as she tackles Ryuzaki with a bear hug, a surprised huff coming from him. 

Light indulges in the brief look of panic that washes over Ryuzaki’s face. That’s right, you asshole. Misa could choke someone to death based purely on her level of excitement. She’s taken several self-defense courses and Light has personally seen her deck three different men. Suffer.

“What’s your Insta handle?” Misa finally releases her death grip on him, whipping out her phone in the same amount of time it takes an experienced gunslinger to shoot a man dead. She glances back at Light. “Light, you’re doing it again.”

He blanches for a moment. The face. He schools it back into breezy nonchalance. Misa once showed him a photo of the face, accidentally revealed during a high school debate competition. He cringed and made her delete it. He works too hard to look. . . like that. 

“Do you always look deranged when your girlfriend meets people?” Ryuzaki places his thumb back into the corner of his mouth while Light can’t restrain himself from a discreet sneer.

He starts, “She’s not—”

“I’m his boss!” Misa chirps, hooking an arm around Light’s neck. 

The silence that ensues is enough to make him want to drop in a tea puddle and roll away. Misa’s arm lock is tight enough for him to briefly leave the plane of existence.

“You own this fine establishment?” Ryuzaki’s enjoying this. The bastard. 

He glares at him through his fringe while Ryuzaki smiles back, a smirk rivaling the subtlest “oh-poor-you” looks Light’s perfected from a young age. _Misa, don’t_ —

“Yes! I used to go to college here and when Light said he needed a job, I just _had_ to help! So, I fundraised—”

“Yes, Misa, we don’t have to go into all the details. You’re a great friend.” Light breaks away from her grip and rubs the back of his neck. A sprinkle of embarrassment, a crumble of a compliment, she melts and pats his back with a blush. 

“Ah.” Ryuzaki glances between the two of them. “Well, you can always ask me for advice if you need. I own the place across the street.” 

Light reaches the next plane of existence yet again. He can’t believe this.

“Wow!” Misa is useless as always, eyes sparkling. “We’re like neighbors!” 

He _cannot_ believe he missed this. The rage entering his body is unmatchable. Misa gives him a hard slap on the back that knocks him out of it. 

“Let’s take a selfie!” She hauls both of them into position with a strength she really shouldn’t have. The final picture has both of them looking shaken, faces pressed against Misa’s cheeky grin. 

And as she came, she’s gone, a rapid hand wave goodbye leading to a quick air kiss as she leaves the store. Matsuda finally starts breathing again from his hiding position behind the counter. Light checks his phone. He’s been tagged in her recent post. The Coffee Shop account is also tagged. 

“I _like_ her.” Ryuzaki sounds surprised and Light basks in that for a few heavenly seconds, ignoring Matsuda’s barely restrained squeals into his phone.

Absolute—

“Bullshit.” Mihael glares at both of them from across the counter, Nate peeking from behind him with an unreadable look. “I’m not giving pretty boy any special treatment.”

Light isn’t even offended but he raises an eyebrow anyway. Ryuzaki shrugs. 

“I’ll make it.” Nate heads back into the kitchen, Mihael on his heels, mid-argument to the back of his head.

It ends up being the saltiest cup of coffee Light has ever tasted.

“Oh.” Nate responds to the disgusted look. “I thought it was sugar.”

Mihael cackles in the kitchen, coffee poured into a drain, Ryuzaki poking his head through another one of his turtlenecks, and tugging him along by the wrist through crunchy leaf piles. Orange and yellow leaves flutter and skid over dirt paths. It’s surprising how easy it is to ignore them all for the novelty of grabbing onto Ryuzaki’s hand, cold and pale and stiff when Light latches on. They intertwine. Tunnel vision.

The day Light pretends to be busy, Ryuzaki comes by with an old case file. It’s simple enough to read and determine the prime suspect. Ryuzaki just moves it to the side after they’re finished, unsurprised. The considering, sharp look is undeterred by Light pouring them both cheap wine, cat-covered mugs, till the flaking paint in the bathroom is quaint and romantic and no longer just sad. He isn’t lying to himself when he closes his eyes like he’s tired and not annoyed at that unwavering stare.

There’s something malicious about it. He’s not stupid. They collide again in the tub and Ryuzaki hits his head against the tile and Light laughs till he falls against the shower curtain and onto the rubber mat and there’s another boundary gone with Ryuzaki pressing him down and Light losing his breath, pushing back till it’s not friendly anymore. The fist to the face doesn’t shut him up but the rush of cold water does.

“Why L?” Light blearily rubs his hair with a dish towel. “On your cups?”

That was an unnecessary addition. Ryuzaki pauses his own drying, looking every bit like a drowned cat standing in Light’s bedroom. 

“My name is L Lawliet. I prefer Ryuzaki.” He resumes and shakes his head. Water droplets fly into Light’s eyes and he has to rub his face again as L turns away. 

It makes sense and not but Light is past the point of turning his nose over a few peculiarities. Is there something wrong with him? Brings him back to high school, lounging in a rogue sunbeam passing by his bedroom window, thinking about how to ditch Misa after Student Council and the cold feeling in his gut whenever he sat down for family dinner, weirdly guilty over nothing, leaving as soon as his bowl was clean. Misa was at least good company for when he finally needed to eat something other than rice. 

He’s different now. A light dusting of snow settles on the sidewalk and he walks carefully before Mihael slams into him from the back while sliding on his scooter. L finds him face down in the frost and drags him home. Feverish, Light’s dazed enough that even L’s fingers have a warmth to them. Say something, anything really. He can’t sleep.

Little notes of British accent slide out in L’s nonchalant recitation of the Holy Bible and Light finds bits of himself snagged onto every hook till it rings again in beautiful memory-dazed rewind in the comfort of his cheap bed sheets while he pretends to himself that he’s falling asleep, any minute now. 

Nights where the insomnia causes him to lurk out of bed, he wanders over to the Coffee Shop.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Light orders a black coffee, one sugar, settling into defeat.

“Some of us don’t have Youtuber sugar mamas to support our asses.” Mihael’s strawberry cap is particularly unsightly at 3 AM. He turns and yells into the back, “Matt, you motherfucker, make the coffee already!”

Fucking L.

“It can’t be legal.” Light muses while L taps his spoon against his glass of chilled mango tea, sweetened. 

L sips and rests the glass on the bedside table. “Light-kun, you’re definitely of consenting age.” 

“The teenagers you have at your shop. Ryuzaki, I’ve seen the same boy working in the early morning to past midnight.” He glares up at L, sharp cornered and softened in hidden ways after orgasm. The fact he hasn’t left is one, although the laptop is a point in the opposing camp.

L looks up from the anime subreddit page. “They’re family. It’s fine.”

“You make your brothers work 24/7?”

“No,” L pulls his attention away, continuing to scroll. “Mello works because he wants to. Matt does whatever people ask him to do. Near doesn’t have anything else to do. And they aren’t my brothers.” 

Light scrunches up his face. “Sons?”

“Successors.” L turns his laptop to him. “Look, Light-kun. How kawaii.”

Light throws his pillow at L’s face and smirks when it hits the target. 

“You aren’t in any position to criticize me about my employees.” L voices on their early morning stroll. 

A student jogs across the dew ridden grass while the two of them pause in the middle, breath coming out in gentle clouds. The mist has risen; Light can see the horizon beyond L’s unkempt hair and the crumbling buildings of higher education. 

“All of your employees are in love with you.” L starts again. “It’s not ethical, Light-kun. You don’t even pay them well.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ryuzaki.” Light bluffs.

“Matsuda. Takada. Mikami. Light,” he says, “please. We both know what you do to people.”

He knows he looks killer in an apron, better with his sleeves rolled up, best in the sunlit glow of a new day, given they ignore the dark circles under his eyes. Or not. Maybe the tortured look suits him, maybe he’ll utilize it in time. But it’s a new role and Light isn’t as flexible as he used to be. He hates to be one of those millennials, whining about getting older at 21 but he feels every second with nail-biting tension. 

L catches him studying the mirror with a frown and scoffs. 

“Light-kun, you’re not going to find anything to criticize in there.” He pulls him away, sharp tone juxtaposed with a soft pinch of sleeve fabric and a gentler tug away, closer to him.

“Never thought you were one for complements, Ryuzaki.” Light preens despite himself. 

L’s nose twitches and Light finds himself leaning in, fumbling at the seams he can barely feel in L’s expression. He can see every detail of it in his sleep. That wide stare. They kiss, monotony in the ease they close their distance, and his pulse flutters in his throat. L is placid in his arms, the bite catching Light off-guard. He hisses and pulls back. 

“Ryuzaki—” Blood pools in his bottom lip.

“You need to focus on self-reflection.” L places his finger in his mouth, unflustered, a hint of red on the edge of his lip. “Not your appearance.” 

He scoffs and leans in again, savoring the lack of hesitation. L can’t mind a pretty face too much. 

Light finds him watching one of Misa’s newest uploads, a saccharine Q & A while she lounges on her bed, skirt riding up her thighs. L pulls apart a banana with his teeth while hunched in his recliner in Light’s apartment. Light turns on his barely used coffee grinder to drown out her chatter. 

“Light-kun, could you turn that off? I’m trying to watch something.” L calls over his shoulder, not looking away from the screen. 

“Remember guys! Nothing is more important than your own health, so take time to treat yourself!” Misa’s voice blasts at full volume from L’s laptop. 

She giggles and scoots up to the camera. Light stifles a sigh when L only curls further into himself, knees pulled up, eyes glued. Squatting in a recliner. He’s like a tense cat. Light smiles and then immediately stops smiling as L draws out a whipped cream can and squirts it directly into his mouth. He’s never doubted his own taste as much as he has these past weeks. 

It troubles him. Light’s not immune to jealousy. The internet _mysteriously_ goes out at his apartment and he gets dragged out to the Coffee Shop, where L proceeds to blast Misa’s video at full volume, Light sends enough subliminal signals to the other patrons that he is not associated with this even if L is leaning on him, and Nate pretends not to notice them from behind the corner. But that’s not it either, given the way L glances back at him for a reaction and receiving Light’s patented patient saint look.

No. L dissects him in every move. But he’s distant at times. Light can tell he’s being compared to something. He smiles with a little too much teeth and L shivers.

L’s address is easy enough to track down after a few discrete looks into the Coffee Shop’s dumpster area. The labels left on tossed cardboard boxes lead him to an actual house, two stories tall, a scatter of plastic baseball bats and charred grass across the lawn. Nate sits on the porch with a needle in hand, spring breeze tickling windchimes, poking it through a small bunch of fabric. 

Light’s brought a plate of cookies, those store-bought crumbly ones that dissolve into sugar as soon as it hits your tongue. He’s ready for the attack. 

He unsheathes his best shy smile while approaching the doorsteps. Nate glances at him and staggers up. He enters the house and slowly closes the door while staring Light in the eye. The door locks audibly. 

Light rings the doorbell. It cracks open, Nate with needle in hand. 

“L isn’t here.” 

“I have cookies!” Light yells into the house. 

Nate stares at him. Judgement is seething off of the kid. Light ignores the angry child in pajamas and turns his charm up as steps pad down the stairs. 

“Light-kun brought cookies?” L nudges Nate out of the way, opening the door fully. 

Light holds the plate closer to his chest when L reaches out and smirks. “Aren’t you going to invite me in, Ryuzaki?”

“So you’ve resorted to bribery, Light-kun?” L bites his thumb, eyes on the sugary treats covered in plastic film. “Truly devious tactics.” 

Nate scoffs and turns away, shuffling away and up the stairs. Light can’t help but let his smirk grow. 

“Teenagers.” He takes initiative with a single step in, hand against the doorknob. L doesn’t object but doesn’t move. 

“No, Near is very polite.” His eyes dilate as Light takes another step in. “He doesn’t like you.” 

L doesn’t budge, nose to nose. A little push would be all it takes. Light tries for a softer expression and L doesn’t return the favor. 

Then the coldness is gone. “Thank you for the cookies, Light-kun.” 

The door shuts quieter than before. Something crumples in his throat before he can help himself.

It’s nothing. L creeps back into his recliner without comment and Light files away whatever this problem is for later. He’s not begging for mercy against the new drowsy curtain draped over the town, a thick heat wave threatening to sweep them into afternoon naps and midnight panic. Nothing brings him to _beg_. Condensation rolls down another glass. Business is good. When he closes his eyes, his mind won’t wade deeper than exhaustion. 

He’s not at L’s mercy. But neither of them should be, right? 

“Light-kun.” L is all teasing, never fully in Light’s grasp when he turns for him. 

He’s tired and the soft breeze brushing through his hair makes his ribcage lighter. His fingers clutch at grass. His heart knocks him out of place. “L.” 

L stills and widens his eyes, like a cat whipping his tail through the air. It’s a warning. “Light.”

Any minute now.

He lies in bed in the same position and listens to his memories. If he digs long enough, he’ll find something that strikes a different sound in the same melody, just wrong enough to make his body shake. L’s quiet tone doesn’t change but feels different in his hands. A dissonant texture that he remembers from a decaying memory. Rubbing worn velvet the wrong way. Peeling at dead skin. Nibbling on an unresponsive lip, stretching, working into something numb.

L’s fingers pick out a weed fragment from Light’s fringe, knead dough in the kitchen while L wears the most puzzled expression on his face, curve around Light’s cheek while he pretends to sleep in the grass. Light is always so awake. L probably doesn’t buy it. Yet he does it anyway. 

Sensitivity blooms and he’s quiet when he comes, save the sound of his rasps into a drool damp pillow. It’s stupid. He’s not a teenager anymore. 

The leaking drain is making him pull his hair out. L stares right through him, a piece missing the puzzle.

No, no, he doesn’t regret things, he _doesn’t_ —

Light can count the times L sleeps in his bed on one hand, the other trailing the outline of L’s spine in the dark. It’s the fifth time when L manages to completely sink into his pillows instead of resting half-awake. L clutches at Light’s wrist like a lifeline and Light ignores the deadening feeling in his right arm to focus on L’s chest moving up and down. He traces each knob in L’s back, himself in a type of trance. Warmth in his chest, spindly fingers wrapping and embracing his neck, his cheek. The moment is too short to savour completely.

L gasps like a dying man and Light snaps awake before he even registers his dreams. He’s still lost in transition between soft unconsciousness and textured awareness when L turns and grabs him by the shoulders, eyes seeing something not there. 

“Ryuzaki.” He wrestles with the exhaustion of his body and L’s glazed stare urging him awake. 

“Light.” L says it like a curse. “You—” 

He stops himself, a thousand different emotions flickering through his face, building like a sea against a dam. Light reaches out to feel the edge of his jaw. L flinches away. The dampness on his fingers twists his lungs together.

“L, I’m here.” He stumbles over the words, trying to match the tone he can’t quite pinpoint, the accusation in L’s face, the desperation in L’s hands digging into his skin. 

It’s the wrong thing to say. L folds himself away slowly till he’s at the edge of the bed. His breathing is audible, slightly off-kilter. Light is still processing his next move, combing through what mistakes he made, when L sits up.

“Go back to sleep, Light-kun.” His weight completely leaves the bed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He watches L leave. Hears the footsteps fade, door close. Lies back down. It’s cold. 

The chill stays with him through the rest of the night into the first notes of birdsong, an aching ugly awareness stretching him apart. He can’t fall asleep. 

Misa calls him the next night. She always had a sixth sense of when the worst moment was. He orders a pizza and eats while she rambles about her new partnership with another makeup company, only saying _goodbye_ , _hello_ , and _thank you_ , in no particular order.

Like that, the detour is over. He wishes there was more of a noise to it. 

It’s another autumn, new beginnings and seasonal fever circling the air, preying on new minds. L still has more customers than him. Mihael and Nate pass his window and conspicuously peer in. Other than that, everything fades back into place.

And he gets drunk. Shit drunk. 

L’s door takes a good few whacks before it opens. Light hurls a punch that lands against the doorframe.

“What,” L is accusatory and vicious in cold unreaction. His face in complete complacency. They’re both statues like this, angry and hurt and seething. 

Light could scream, swaying here in the early morning, house empty. He shouldn’t have come unprepared and L should just let him in already, a year and more weighing in with every shaky breath. It’s the middle of the night and all he wants to do is cry and kiss that punchable face. More than that, he wants to know he’s not going insane, that these endless nights haven’t twisted his thoughts into stories, trimmed memories into films. He doesn’t remember doing anything wrong. What did he do wrong, what did he do, what makes him less of himself and more of a ghost of something better and worse all at once. Light could leave right now, bookend a game with a resignation letter. No winners. 

He left home without a word after high school. There’s no use in repairing something that always breaks.

L doesn’t say anything. 

Light turns around and immediately passes out on the porch. He comes to a few hours later.

Birdsong. It’s too fucking familiar. L’s arms prop him upright as they slump together on the couch. 

“Tell me Light.” L holds him so carefully. “From the moment you were born, has there ever been a point where you’ve actually told the truth?”

The words strike a hidden chord. Something he’s heard from his deepest dreams, when the weight of L’s hand around his wrist solidifies into shackles. 

L lets him go and Light lets him do it. 

The walk back to his apartment is foggy and damp. It feels like rain on his skin, like baptism or like drowning. The ever nagging exhaustion finally spills over at the first sight of his bed. He’s tired of fighting this. The look of distrust in his father’s eyes, the knowledge of what? Of what? 

He’s gone by the time his head hits the pillow.

The dream had been so sweet. 


	2. said it would be painless, it wasn't that at all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> L thinks back on lost times.

_I knew it._ Splayed hands over a screen, static grain against his thin fingers, mind going faster than he can speak, words escaping like heartbeats going still. _I wasn’t wrong, but I._ . .

Wasn’t wrong. It’s different from being right. It’s different, the way he looks at Light while the boy sleeps, when he can trust the façade is gone, crumbled between the soft breaths they share over the chain’s difference. It has to be an act, the difference in composure, the difference in careful side glances, the difference in faint touches against clothing and metal. 

He deals in equal measure as he takes and he _takes_ , he takes till he’s sick on it. On Light’s quiet observation in the morning, smiles in the afternoon, stares in the evening. Discrete brushes against his shoulder. L’s skin tingles and he trades pleasantries like poisons. Finds himself wrapped into Light’s torso in the fuzzy middle of late night and early morning and forces himself not to shake at new revelations of how they feel in this intersection, together, where nothing matters but the pure sensation of living and sleep. And sleep. What a cruel mistress.

They are both awake during this. Light stiffens as L lazily curls his fingers into Light’s ribcage, hoping it hurts. Says nothing, even when the jut of his handcuff leaves a red imprint onto Light’s stomach. L trembles in rage and squeezes harder. 

This softness is a lie Light is banking on him swallowing whole, like a beautiful strawberry cake made out of raw meat. He doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t want to. Light cries in his sleep during the first nights they share the bed. He’s quiet about it and wakes like someone is smothering him, the flicker of panic in wide doe eyes meeting his across the mattress. The melting warmth in them makes L close his. 

L wants to pull on the chain like a leash, so he does. Then Light starts mimicking him, and that can’t be accepted. Light clutches at his wrist in the night, searching for something to grasp in the dark and settling on L’s bony hand. L starts mimicking him and they end up sleeping face to face instead of back to back and L finds that this is completely unacceptable, the sudden ache underneath his collarbone down to his gut. He wants to pull on the chain. He wants. 

Light sleeps like an innocent and it hurts. It hurts but L crawls into bed with anticipation and need and death growing in his chest like a parasite crawling against his heart. Light tucks his face into his pillow. L places his hand just barely above the curve of Light’s jaw, a single dip threatening to touch, to claim, to hold. To tug just a little closer. 

He’s right about everything. Every time, he remembers saying to Watari. I’m going to solve it every time. It’s not like there hasn’t been close calls, or mistakes, or simple stupid concessions to lesser people because of how this world caters to the ones with connections to old power and money. He has money. He has power. He has answers, even if they aren’t the ones people want. He has never doubted that.

It’s always been enough. Light stirs and L’s hand shakes before he pulls it back into his chest. He hates him more than anyone he’s met. Light frowns and fumbles against the empty mattress beside him. L reaches back out. Holds his breath when Light sighs and grasps it. His fingernails graze L’s skin. 

Doubt breaks him down into fragments of feeling. A little madness comes over him during certain portions of the day when the Task Force is just a bit too slow to deal with in good humor and Light smiles at him like it’s their private joke. He hits back with the smile during some Kira snark and Light glares like his old self and for a short moment L can forget the past few months for this familiar dance. Night falls and it unravels again so sweetly that L might savor it, might wonder when time is running out, when Light will turn around and pin him to the wall and smile like he’s winning. 

L fights sleep from dragging him out of this. Light in the dark, hand in his, in his bed, innocent in the night-time daze of forgiveness. L swells and overflows with it. The daze, the hope, the echo. Doubt, doubt, doubt. 

_Turn and look at me. Turn and confess. Tell me I’m right. Tell me this is right._

L grows hot and cold and confused and drags his finger against the softness of Light’s skin, searching for those hidden edges and where they’ll cut him if he loses sight of what Light is, what he has always been. 

He drops a single sugar cube in his cup and lets the bitterness linger in his mouth. Time seeps away like teardrops into pillows, dampening, then nothing. 

“This is going exactly as I planned. It’s almost scary.” Light stays by his side, chain snaking against the tile.

L avoids looking at him. “You shouldn’t be scared, Light. You should be happy.”

Will he be happy, at the end of this? Whatever the outcome?

He hates that it’s even a question. The outcome should be certain. The treats Watari leaves in the tray wobble on L’s tongue. Stale, curdled coffee remains in mugs smell like char. He’s been content, if he bothers to categorize the daily moments outside of progression and wins. He imagines Light had been too, in his perfectly crafted life. Never too challenging. 

Light curls into himself and L wonders how long it will take till they’re bored with each other, as all people end up being. To be this entertaining for this long is already such a novelty. Cake, carcass, L nibbles enough to skim danger, not enough to tell the difference between sweetness and the tang of blood. He wants to test the limits. Light smiles and L’s heart skips, his brain surges from proof to belief. _I know_ to _I wish_. _I want_. 

He’ll get bored eventually but this, now, it’s necessary. It’s desirable. The moment L reels himself back into focus, his fingers ache from holding onto the pillow too tightly, onto Light too loosely. 

He hadn’t anticipated; he hadn’t realized; he hadn’t noticed the shift in fortunes, the weather. The rain falls around them like a flood. L is left in the current. 

Light has no right to look as lovely as he does, the underlying gleam back in his eyes. Notebook in hand, he smiles like he’s winning. He doesn’t look at L with the same delighted glint as before. He doesn’t look at L at all, placid content smoothed against those sharp teeth. 

The handcuffs are tucked away. L reaches for nothing in the dark. He was nothing but a ghost, L reminds himself as the sun crawls up the window pane. He rests his hand against his burning eyes and tries to ignore the sunlight. Nothing but a shadow of another future. The ache doesn’t stop. 

Kira sharpens his knife against L’s spine, traces of fingers barely pressed, digging into him. Light and Misa embrace in the lobby of the Task Force building while L replays inconsistencies in his mind till it echoes into noise. L doesn’t lie to himself the next time Light stares at him for longer than a respectable length, dwells in the malice he drapes over L’s shoulders. There’s something dying inside of him and L needs it to die faster. 

“I thought you’d say something like that.” L memorizes the last aspects of Light Yagami he can. 

In the rain, the picture of a devoted friend. Light acts as if he hasn’t taken everything from him. L wants to punch him. L wants to grab and tear him apart and stitch him back together, for Light to fall forward while L stays still.

L wouldn’t catch him, L would let him suffer, he would make sure Light _suffers_ —

L grasps Light’s foot. It’s satisfying to hear surprise in his voice. He rubs a little harder than necessary. Childish. L pauses and stares at his hand wrapped around Light’s leg, fingers splayed across wet fabric. Just an inch away from the skin of his ankle. L is still clasping onto him like a child as if it’ll change anything. It’s more pathetic than sad. How Light is already bored of their games. How L isn’t. 

Because he’s losing. If he was winning, he’d slip away, he’d replace conversation with orders, he’d end this. It wasn’t enough to delay the end. L should have taken the upper hand while he could.

He had left Misa in chains and taken Light hand in hand, as if the link between them was enough to maintain control, Light’s sharp focus mixing so perfectly with his own till he lost sight of what was dangerous. The god outside of the helicopter. The god beside him.

The towel against his cheek. L’s eyes widen. He’s never felt so powerless. 

“It’ll be lonely, won’t it?” 

The data has been deleted. _Everyone, the shinigami_ —

(This has been his accomplishment. Light Yagami smirks a final time and he is consumed with the truth. He wasn’t wrong.

His fingers fall from Light’s shoulder. 

_But I wish I was_.)

\---

It’s the bells that bring him back. Wammy’s is as chaotic as he remembers even if the date is wrong. He’s still as he remembers, a boy with buggy eyes and thin arms and a mind constantly fixated on the right details. It’s not wrong; it’s different. 

Watari asks him what is wrong while L reorients himself, staring at the updated monitors and better equipment. L’s heartbeat is heavier than before. He asks for more custard and Watari lets him be.

A quick internet search confirms his suspicions. Light Yagami is only seven years old, already making local news in a small Californian town for being an overachiever. It’s all different. L Lawliet is fourteen and exiting his room for the first time in months, case files abandoned at the blinking computer monitors. He’s diverged from the past but it seems like that wasn’t his choice to make. The past has moved on without him. 

L continues solving cases, eating pastries, routinely checking for news of sudden heart attacks in a tell-tale pattern. On quieter nights he finds himself typing out Light’s name, only to delete it letter by letter from the search bar. 

He creeps out of his room more often, carefully slipping past the other children, and heads out onto the wet grass in the dim glow of evening. Moonlight glimmers against the dew and the droplets left on his bare feet. Watari never pressures him to talk. Wind flutters through the blades. They tickle the soles of his feet while he plunges his fingers in the dirt, little pebbles grazing the thin skin till pink blooms against the brown streaks. 

He’s alive. The air tastes like rain and anticipation. 

There’s no recorded history of this type of _reincarnation_ happening, if it could be classified as such. It’s more of a skip in a record to a similar chord. The same people, different times. Barely different times at that. 

Wammy’s is the same as ever. He peers past the stained glass towards the horizon, the world balancing on such a fragile needle. He’s seen countries crumble and gods walk on earth. To his knowledge, he’s the only one who remembers, if it can be considered memory and not a vivid nightmare. 

The first things he changes are small. He ignores the cases he’s solved before, which narrows the field to mere trifles. Watari brings him increasingly sweeter deserts to satiate his newfound boredom over mysteries. L redos the stocks to match the trends he recalls, gets them right. It’s so much less satisfying when he’s already played the game and seen the ending. So he stops playing. 

\---

America is as sugar-pop sour as he remembers while relocating to one of the New York properties. A country of manufactured elegance and rats dragging pizza slices into sewers. The Manhattan apartment is sleek and cold and empty which suits L fine. He makes his way down the city streets in search of entertainment coming in the form of trendy little pastries from the hands of newly graduated culinary school students. 

He’s listless, crouching on the subway station benches and watching the R143s speed by. New Yorkers shuffle past, equally one-track minded, and L finds himself back in his empty apartment. 

The skyline glows like an abstract art piece. It’s iconic, yet drops in his stomach like a pinch of sand, slipping through fingers onto a beach. It’s nothing special. He’s looking for something to pass the time. Towards what end? He’s not enraged anymore. Not on the edge of the seat with a dagger between his fingers, dancing with an opponent equally as sharp, as excited. 

The room is silent. It’s strange to feel that silence weigh so heavily when he’d lived in it for so long. 

\---

There’s nothing with so many layers, avenues of discovery, as the mind he remembers. The wounds are healing, despite every intention to keep them gaping open. He’s not angry anymore.

Another morning in a sleepy town, more dead than half-awake at this hour. Mello tears open another box when L takes a look into the windows across the street. Light sweeps already spotless floors. It’ll be lonely, won’t it? 

Near passes by them. He’s quieter these days, lingering in the kitchen, a chocolate bar in his hands after midnight. He doesn’t open it. 

There are ideas that shouldn’t even approach L’s mind. Near doesn’t confirm or deny anything, just leaves L to do what he will. 

And the days continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this fic with the purest of intentions, believe me! I just can't help myself in being as angsty as possible. There's only one more chapter and then an epilogue to finish this; they will be added at the same time. Best case scenario, I get it to you guys by Christmas. 
> 
> If you want to follow my progress, check out my twitter at [@firesafinething](https://twitter.com/firesafinething)! I post snippets of whatever I'm working on.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me for writing updates and sneak peaks at [@firesafinething](https://twitter.com/firesafinething).


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